That Old Grand Sire of Mine
by The Cat's Whiskers
Summary: Sequel to Vampiricus Non Domesticus. In which the situation not only doesn't improve, but gets more complicated...
1. Demon Hunting De Rigueur

**_Disclaimer_**_: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…_

**_Summary:_**_ Sequel to __**Vampirus (Non) Domesticus**. Wherein there is a lot of heated debate and pithy comment…Rating PG13. _

**THAT OLD (GRAND) SIRE OF MINE**

**Chapter 1 – Demon Hunting De Rigueur **

"GUNN!" Wesley hurled the axe and it spun lethally towards the black man –

- Who caught it effortlessly in one hand, bending at the waist under a tentacle as thick as a man's wrist with the smooth grace of a dancer, before rising up to lash out with his new weapon and slice smoothly through the thing like a hot knife through butter.

The Ethulak shrieked at a decibel level that made them all flinch momentarily before they resumed the attack.

Wesley threw himself to one side as another tentacle whipped overhead and hit a support pillar with the force of a steel cable, blasting a huge chunk of plaster and brick into fine powder, "_I hate tentacles_!" His sword amputated another threshing reptilian limb – "Spike!"

But the blond vampire had already seen the danger and simply wasn't there, displaying his kind's incredible speed of movement. Despite their ferocious battle with something ten feet high and four feet wide – possessing tentacles to match - Wesley glanced around at his friends and saw the same emotions on every face: a mixture of unyielding determination and fierce exhilaration.

Even Fred, who, lacking the strength and speed for direct battle, circled the Ethulak lobbing small grenades to explode where it was already wounded with deadly accuracy, had a berserker's battle glaze in her eyes. Gunn was grinning hugely, Lorne's eyes pulsed with ruby fire, and Angel and Spike briefly shared feral grins in a rare moment of total accord. Wesley's own heart was pounding like a fast heavy-rock drum solo and he was nearly dizzy with adrenaline; sometimes being able to mix it up like this was the only way you knew you were truly _alive_ – _Uh oh._ "Get DOWN!"

The Ethulak screeched again as everyone either dived for cover or simply hit the floor instinctively, but not in triumph. Suffering a score mortal wounds and maddened beyond rationality, the powerful mystical energies that had enabled it to manifest physically in this dimension in the first place discharged wildly and uncontrollably, reaching critical mass. The Ethulak swelled another three feet, then exploded with a deafening thunderclap that shook the building, ripping plaster off walls and sending up clouds of dust.

"Hu-gh-hu-gh." Wesley clambered up coughing, futilely brushing at his clothing, looking as if someone had up-ended a bag of flour over him.

"_Wes._" The plaintive complaint made him look up sharply.

Moving stiffly, his face a rictus of dismay, Angel shrugged out of his customary knee-length black leather coat and let it fall to the floor without touching it. Not surprising considering it was smothered in disgusting, bile-coloured…_gloop_.

"Yeah, English," Gunn grimaced, holding out the battle-axe as far from his person, and his Gucci suit, as he was able, wincing as more gloop dripped from it in oozing, ugly greenish-yellow blobs. "How come you never mentioned there would be _slime_ when we killed this thing?"

"Ewwww." Also looking like the victim of a frat-house flour prank, Fred whispered her opinion, which pretty much summed it up.

"That's my favourite coat," Angel complained, peering at the garment from which faint wisps of smoke were already beginning to rise.

"It's a _demon_," Wesley protested, "slime comes as standard. I didn't think that _needed _mentioning. Besides, Angel has a corporate account at Dolce & Gabbana on Rodeo Drive –"

"I do?"/"You do?"/"He does?"/"Doesn't surprise me, he's always been a clothes-horse." Came back simultaneously, though they all broke off and glared at Spike, who'd uttered the last insouciantly, having somehow managed to escape being covered in either powdered plaster or demon slime.

"Er, do we need to get rid of..?" Fred pointed a finger at the gory remains of the Ethulak.

"No," Wesley assured them, "the Ethulak's remains will disappear from this dimension within the hour, and this garage will just look as if someone _really_ couldn't parallel park."

Angel led the way towards his convertible and they all clambered in. Fred climbed in the front passenger seat, relaxing in the space, but with significant glances at each other, Wesley, Spike, Gunn and Lorne mutely crammed _a la_ sardines in the back seat without complaint. Although breathing rapidly from the exertion, Fred's face was not flushed red but rather had taken on a sky-blue hue that gave warning – Illyria might be content to remain quiescent within Fred's body for now, but should it be irritated enough to take control...However, it wasn't far to Wolfram & Hart, Wesley consoled himself as Angel pulled away from the sidewalk…and hesitated.

"Do you think Dolce & Gabbana will still be open?"

_To be continued in Chapter 2…_

_© _2004 C. D. Stewart


	2. Tea Break

**_Disclaimer_**_: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…_

**_Summary:_**_ Sequel to __**Vampirus (Non) Domesticus**. Wherein there is a lot of heated debate and pithy comment…Rating PG13. _

**THAT OLD (GRAND) SIRE OF MINE**

**Chapter 2 – Tea-Break**

Possibly because of some mystical irony, at the same time on another continent, a stocky, inconspicuous man was standing in front of the desk of what many would consider to be a beautiful blond woman. Beresford – that was his name – wasn't so moved, however. Ffion Wilkes-Booth superficially resembled Meryl Streep, having aristocratic features, perfect rosebud lips and a graceful long neck that complemented her discreetly curved slender figure. Dressed conservatively as the "accountant" she ostensibly was, Ms Wilkes-Booth projected an image of the cool English Rose, pure and serene. _Cold as a polar icecap_, Beresford thought derisively, _emotionally as well as in the sack. Can't imagine how her fiancé gets any further than second base with her…what am I saying? They're perfect for each other…_

He came back to reality as she began to examine his report. He struggled to hide his amusement when she merely sniffed at Wyndham-Pryce's open involvement with the vampire with a soul and passed on, and merely sniffed again at the ex-Watcher's very private – that had been very difficult for Beresford to discover - sideline in collecting books and objects of extremely dangerous mystical attributes…only to go as grey as old socks when she came across his report of the two men sharing an apartment. She pressed a hand to her chest. "Are you sure?" She asked him in a tone that implied he'd discovered Wyndham-Pryce was a serial killer.

"Two men, one bed. The math isn't all that hard." Beresford commented, again hiding his derision at her reaction. Ms Wilkes-Booth had seen far worse, she had to have done - she _was_ an accountant sure, but she was _also_ one of those Watcher Council geeks, her uncle and aunt and sundry other relatives being amongst the few of those pompous windbags who hadn't been blown to smithereens by the First Evil last year. _And it couldn't have happened to a more deserving bunch, pity that Caleb guy missed a few…_

"There." Without preamble or thanks, Ms Wilkes-Booth handed him an envelope full of English pounds sterling in small denominations and used notes as he had requested. "I shall have to sort this out."

Leaving without further ado and aware that he had been dismissed as irrelevant the moment he walked out the door, Beresford exited the posh Victorian façade building in the heart of London's most affluent business area and then walked briskly two blocks East with a grin on his face, where he entered another equally graceful building.

Ushered into the office by a dried up stick of a secretary who looked like she'd been born sixty and sucking lemons, Beresford found himself in an imposing wood panelled office. Heavy oil paintings adorned the walls, thick velvet drapes framed the Georgian windows and the ornate stone fireplace had logs laid ready in the grate. A priceless bone china tea service resided atop a side table, and next to it was a huge, very valuable antique globe that was really a drinks cabinet.

Beresford wasn't impressed. The room and its fittings were props, chosen as ego-boosters by the tall young man who was now rising from the plush leather chair behind the desk. His features were momentarily contorted as he tried to appear regal, yet couldn't hide his anxiety. "Well?" He demanded sharply.

For a second, Beresford didn't answer, comparing his second employer unfavourably with his target. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce's spectacles gave him a studious appearance, but emphasised grey eyes full of steely resolve. His physique, though not as powerful as that of Lorne, Charles Gunn or Angel the Vampire With The Soul, was lean and purely muscular. His quiet reserve was the silence of strength and character, and his flashes of goofiness were an endearing revelation that he knew when to unclench and not take himself too seriously.

Nigel Wyndham-Pryce was like a wishy-washy reflection, or a cheap knock-off painting from a superior original. About the only thing he had in common with his elder brother was height. In place of the spiky brunette crop that Beresford had seen Wesley often run his fingers through in agitation as he tried to help Angel save the next imperilled innocent, Nigel's hair was meticulously styled, bespeaking the time to spend many hours at an exclusive salon plus a distinct lack of worry in his life.

The contact lenses he wore over spectacles made him blink rapidly and look like a startled rabbit, and highlighted his facial flaws: small eyes and a rather podgy nose. His jaw lacked the definition of Wesley's and his mouth was petulant. Unlike Wesley, who got and kept his fitness from daily battles with gruesome nasties like that Ethulak thing Beresford had seen Team Angel slaughter, Nigel spent two hours a day in a members-only health-spa gymnasium. His excellently cut suit was four or five times more expensive than anything Beresford had witnessed Wesley wear, but couldn't quite hide the subtle hint of developing paunch and sagging butt.

When Beresford had tracked Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, his impression had been one of firm resolve, quiet integrity, and an unpretentious individual who would be very, very dangerous if provoked. Looking at Nigel now, the first word that sprang to his mind was: _callow_. Followed immediately by _whiny, sulky, petulant, sly_ and _brat_. For a moment he enjoyed the way panic infused Nigel's eyes, then held out his report.

Snatching it off him, Nigel sat down at the desk and began to pore over it. Unlike Ffion who had freaked over the elder Wyndham-Pryce's domestic arrangements, Nigel dismissed them summarily, his mouth twisting in scorn as he looked at the photograph of Wesley and the blond man in their parking garage, getting out of the Barracuda. What really agitated Nigel was Wesley's new position at Wolfram & Hart as Director of the Occult (& Mystical Research) Department now that Angel was CEO, a hardly surprising promotion since the elder Wyndham-Pryce brother had been the vampire's right hand man and best friend for nearly five years. Nigel Wyndham-Pryce, however, seemed to be taking Wesley's good fortune rather badly as the younger man mumbled to himself. "Absolutely shocking, vile, vile! That a Watcher should willingly serve a vampire and protect him against his own kind, even a Slayer…coward! Quisling! Perversion. Disgusting. Shameful."

After listening to synonyms of the same words for a good five minutes as Nigel, in increasing agitation, worked his way through the report, Beresford had had enough. "Ahem, I do have another appointment."

"What? Oh yes." Holding out the envelope of cash, Nigel looked at him with considerable anxiety, "I _can_ count on your absolute discretion?"

Realising that the kid had no idea he'd just given Beresford a major insult, Beresford merely nodded and escaped as quickly as possible into the street, where he retired to a quiet café and discreetly secreted his cash in his clothing. Yes indeed, Ffion Wilkes-Booth and Nigel Wyndham-Pryce thoroughly deserved each other. It had been fun working for both of them, secretly watching them coo at each other, fiancé and fiancée each unaware that the other had hired him. Obviously each one had a different agenda from their reactions to Beresford's information, but he squashed his burgeoning curiosity. Getting involved in the story of the target was a sure road to ruin.

Not that Wesley Wyndham-Pryce likely needed any help from the likes of him. The Brit had survived half a decade as the Lieutenant of the Vampire With A Soul - including at least two up-close-and-personal encounters with Angel's murderous_ alter_ _ego_, Angelus - plus an entire array of human and mystical psychopaths. Nor was that blond guy to be trifled with; Beresford knew a bad dude when he laid eyes on one, and for all the flippancy and casual demeanour displayed by "Spike" as the blond seemed to be called, Beresford had taken heed of the man's subtly proprietary attitude towards Wyndham-Pryce. While careful to keep well back, Beresford had been able to tell even from a safe surveillance distance that those pale ice-blue eyes betrayed a carefully tamped down capacity for unimaginable violence.

Beresford finished his drink and made plans to take his next job somewhere more neutral, like France. That the Queen Slayer Buffy Summers should decide to reconstruct the Watcher Council after defeating the First Evil had astonished many in mystical circles, but made sense to Beresford. For all their stuffy claptrap and conceited twaddle, the Watchers had over the millennia of their existence provided a vast resource for the Slayer line – after all, the First Evil hadn't had them blown up just because it disliked the décor of their London HQ.

Having made every Potential in the world an actual Slayer, Summers now had to train and educate them in all the history and lore of their kind, a task that would be monumentally easier if she didn't have to keep re-inventing the wheel. It would also be beneficial to recreate the Council without the flaws of its predecessor, such as the baffling misogyny of the Council. They had been created to serve the Slayer, but somewhere along the line, they had become more interested in preserving their society and traditions than helping the current representative of the Powers That Be.

Who, by the way, had yet to make any sign manifest on how _they_ viewed a world full of Slayers where there had once only been _the_ Chosen _One_. In the brief lull immediately following the defeat of the First Evil by some Champion of Light Buffy had come up with over the expected favourite, Angel, some guy who had been charcoaled by the actual event, Buffy Summers and her Watcher Rupert Giles had seized the initiative and instigated their wholesale reorganisation plan. The Scooby Gang entire were even now attacking their Slayer's pet project with their customary zeal, and everyone else had been left either sitting in the dust or frantically playing catch-up.

Beresford wasn't a foolish man and he could see the conflict bubbling along nicely. Some factions in the remnants of the old Watcher Council were entrenching against what they viewed as an attack on their culture and a besmirching of those that had been killed by an upstart girl who didn't know her 'place' and the Watcher they saw as a traitor to their creed. Other factions just as eagerly jumped on the modernising bandwagon, eager to drag the Watchers out of the Stone Age, and now the players on each side were polarising to one standard or another.

The conservative faction had been dealt a recent blow when Mr Zubuto, the hugely respected Watcher of the late Slayer Kendra Latbala Faisal, had thrown in with Buffy, but there were other powerful Watchers, whose lineage in the organisation went back to before the time of Christ, who were firmly in the conservative camp. Families were being split along ideological lines, and when that happened, things got _ugly_. Having worked as a 'heavy' for a mid-level Yorkshire crook during the bitter Miners Strike of 1984 in England, Beresford had no intention of sticking around for _this_ conflict.

Summers' new regime had set up home on the rim of the crater/valley where Sunnydale had actually been, since Buffy's view that the new Slayers needed to get used to a Hellmouth as quickly as possible had obvious merit (and nobody really wanted to move to the next nearest Hellmouth in Cleveland). Beresford made a mental note to stay out of England and the United States of America for the foreseeable future. Things were already getting Ugly and the Shanshu Prophecy claimed that another Apocalypse was in the offing…

Beresford had to smile at himself as he realised he was now at the stage where he could actually use the words 'another' and 'Apocalypse' one after the other with equanimity. Shanshu stated clearly that the Vampire With A Soul would be restored to humanity should he triumph for the Powers That Be and everyone knew that the Vampire With A Soul had one true love: the Slayer-Queen, Buffy Summers…

_To be continued in Chapter 3…_

_© _2005 C. D. Stewart


	3. Poisoned Chalice

**_Disclaimer_**_: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…_

**_Summary:_**_ Sequel to __**Vampirus (Non) Domesticus**. Wherein there is a lot of heated debate and pithy comment…Rating PG13. _

**THAT OLD (GRAND) SIRE OF MINE**

**Chapter 3 – Poisoned Chalice**

"Harmony, I need that file rather urgently." Wesley tried to hang on to his patience.

"Hm." Harmony continued to gaze at the preview catalogue of _Versace's Spring Collection_, then looked up, "Oh right! I'm supposed to care about stuff like that, aren't I?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"Right, ooh, right." Looking around as if she expected the file to materialise conveniently out of thin air in front of her, Harmony looked at Wesley helplessly. "Sorry…"

"Move over." Going around behind her desk, Wesley expertly flicked through the neat stacks of files in her desk trays, noting to his surprise that they weren't that chaotic – if he'd given her ten minutes or a heads up, Harmony probably would have been able to find it. Wesley became aware that Harmony was leaning slightly more towards him than was polite, intruding on the edges of his personal space, her nostrils flared slightly and her lips a tiny bit parted…she was scenting him. "Stop that."

She leaned back with a placatory, I'm-not-really-a-serial-killing-demon smile and Wesley felt a momentary twinge over his somewhat harsh snap, but he daren't let her pick up how concentrated Spike's scent was on him. Fortunately, as well as vampires having a much weaker body odour than humans, Spike's scent was so widespread throughout Wolfram & Hart that neither Lorne nor especially Angel, both of whom possessed olfactory excellence, had seemed to notice it's concentration around Wesley. The Brit wanted to keep it that way – he didn't need Angel to be any sulkier than 'General Grumpy-pants' as Spike had unfortunately rather aptly christened him, already was. Wesley tuned out as Harmony started babbling some explanation at him, "Sorry, our boss is being Captain Cranky this morning. I hoped his first mug of blood would soothe the savage beast but no such luck…"

_Ah-hah! _Pulling the file, Wesley opened it and noted that it had been word-processed and itemised correctly; Harmony might be a flake, but she _was_ good at admin -

"…maybe I ought to put more otter in it? Or –"

"Otter?" Wesley snapped back to the here and now with a force that, had it been literal and not metaphysical, would have caused serious whiplash. "I thought Angel drank –"

"Pig's blood, yeah. So do I." Harmony hastened to assure him. "But you know, after a while…same old, same old; pig's blood isn't really that nice, it's just so much easier to get hold of than beef or horse or mutton if you've sworn off people…only lamb's blood is easier to get hold of than swine, and no vampire's gonna touch _that_ so –"

"?" Wesley was battered by the verbal deluge.

"You know, Lamb's Blood…" She raised her eyebrows at him. "You call yourself a Christian and you've never read the Gospels?"

_Gospels? Oh, John Chapter 1 verse 29: 'The Blood of The Lamb that takes Sin away from the world'. Oops, right, theologically profoundly disturbing to a vampire._ "Ah, of course."

"Anyway, pig's blood…like, _yuck_, but we were talking in the kitchen and one of the guys in Contracts…or maybe it was Necromancy?…Or Sorcery?…Or Files & Records?…Whatever, anyway, they said if I wanted a treat, I should try –"

"Otter's blood."

"Yeah."

"And Angel..?"

"Loves it. I give him three mugs a day – morning, lunch and afternoon – it completely disguises the pig's blood –"

_I'll just bet it does._ Wesley was getting that hot, tight tingling sensation at the nape of his neck that experience had taught him did not bode well.

"- and for some reason, you never get tired of the taste." Harmony chirped.

"Excellent. Carry on." Wesley smiled insincerely and walked away, casually flicking through the file as if nothing untoward had happened. Going into his office and closing the door, Wesley dropped the file on his desk without interest and instead, pulled out one of the source books: "Otter blood – English."

Leaning back in his chair, Wesley slowly read through the words that had appeared on the page. The vampire was a mystical creature – it inhabited the corpse of the human it killed, maintaining their body indefinitely. As every Watcher explained to his or her Slayer, a vampire wasn't a person at all. It had access to the personality and memories of its human victim to the extent it could act so exactly like them as to fool even the closest of family, but it wasn't them. The human was dead, his or her soul having fled their body, the demon simply taking up residence in the empty home left. Admittedly, sometimes the demon took on a trait of the human – such as Drusilla continuing to be clairvoyant after Angelus Sired her, or Spike's ability to not only appreciate the poetic, but be capable of love in some form, even without a soul, but such depended as much on the personality of the individual demon as it did on that of the human.

When it came to feeding, the process was simple. Vampires required mammalian blood to survive. They could survive on vermin, swine, anything as long as it was a mammal, but human blood made them strongest and fastest. Other blood was like junk food to a vampire, and human blood was like healthy food. In the same way that a human could live on Big Macs and TV dinners but would only be fully fit if they ate fresh fruit and vegetables, so too a vampire could live indefinitely on non-human mammals, but to be in really tip-top shape, they needed occasionally to imbibe _homo sapiens _haemoglobin.

The major difference was that the vampire's 'health food' was much better tasting to them than human health foods, which was why the vampire as a species took the risk of attacking humans instead of what was actually the much safer option of sticking to cows, horses, sheep, pigs, dogs, cats and other things that were much easier to subdue and of course incapable of staking you.

Except for otter. For reasons that had never really been understood, otter was the exception to the 'human blood tastes best' rule. If non-human mammal blood was like cola, and human blood was like fine wine, then otter blood was fifty-year old cognac, or Krug champagne. Thick, dark and very rich, otter's blood was a delicacy to the undead, rarely obtainable by virtue of the elusiveness of the otter and the creature's almost unique willingness, amongst mammals, to viciously attack a vampire on sight instead of panicking or being paralysed by fear. Otter blood had a '_strong, distinctive meaty flavour',_ which led to the advice that it '_should be imbibed slowly and in small quantities_'. It could also be used to disguise the taste of other things, such as pig's blood…and perhaps something _else_ in the blood?

Wesley closed the source book and replaced it in the row on his desk. He didn't believe in many things, including coincidence. The idea that some mysterious 'guy' in Contracts or wherever just 'happened' to know how good otter blood tasted to a vampire, and then decided to anonymously share that information with Harmony out of the 'goodness of his heart' just didn't wash. He began to swivel his chair from side to side slightly as he worked it out. While Angel's initial melancholy had come about due to giving up Connor and his reservations about taking over Wolfram & Hart, could it be that his depression was being artificially extended and exacerbated by an enemy within who was doctoring his thrice daily mugs of blood, in the same way that unscrupulous geriatric care home operators kept residents quiet by slipping them sedatives in their food? The otter blood would certainly disguise pretty much anything except the most pungent of illicit additives.

Harmony probably dashed into the kitchen and made a fuss about getting the blood for _Angel, _allowing this presumed bad guy to target the dark vampire alone and not arouse suspicion by having all three vampires within the 'inner circle' suddenly develop severe depression and disaffection. Angel was _legendary_ for his ability to brood not just for months but _years_ on end – he'd done it for decades before Buffy showed up, and in the Hyperion Hotel right here in LA through most of the early 1950s. Besides, who would have any interest in driving Harmony over a psychological edge – except to shut up her incessant chirpy bounce, which, okay, was appealing but unlikely.

_As for Spike, most people fortunately, and presumably our bad guy also, seems to assume that he still has no need to ingest blood now he's solid, just as he didn't when he was non-corporeal._ But even if the villain was spiking _all_ the blood to make sure, the blond vampire fed solely from an uncontaminated source – _le Bistro_ Wyndham-Pryce. He tapped his pen on his desk blotter; he needed a way to make sure without tipping off this possible bad guy. Wesley had no real way to smoke him out, assuming he himself wasn't merely being over-paranoid, and if he did something that alerted the man and sent him deep into the woodwork, Team Angel would be handicapped by having an enemy they couldn't readily locate in their midst. Fortunately he was trained Watcher – _ipso facto_ master of all things sneaky.

Getting an empty file wallet, he shoved in a selection of random A4 papers from the shredding file, then stood up and lurked surreptitiously unseen in his office as he peeked through his doorjamb. He could, just, see Harmony's desk outside Angel's office and watched as she glanced at her Cartier wristwatch and then disappeared. Timing it in his head to the second, he strolled out of his office with his head buried in the file – to collide with Harmony as she came back clutching a mug, slopping half the contents all over the file.

"Oh! Ewww!" Harmony dithered, holding the mug and flapping her other hand ineffectually.

Telling her to go back to her desk, Wesley appropriated the mug and told her he'd get it refilled. Depositing the soiled 'prop' file back in his office, he took advantage of those few unobserved seconds to tip some of the blood into a small phial he'd left there for that purpose, then went back out and got the mug topped up – despite what he suspected to be in it, he had not dared risk anything more grandiose like trying to get _all_ the blood spilled or breaking the mug. Taking it back to Harmony and assuring her that there was no harm done, he went back to his office, feeling the shape of the phial in his pocket.

Having the sample analysed in Fred's lab, even by an underling, was too risky, but fortunately today was Friday. Following his established routine, Wesley didn't got to his apartment but instead went to _Ye Olde Brittania, _where in between fleecing arrogant Yank Tinseltown executives of their cash at darts, he made a phone call from the old payphone in back. Less than half an hour later, a weasel-faced man whose only hint of non-humanity was his very bright, unnaturally green eyes passed him en route back from the men's restroom. In the moment they were exactly side by side, Wesley slipped him the phial and $1,000; he always maintained plenty of cash on his person, building it up by withdrawing smaller $50, $20 and $10 bills gradually from ATMs but not spending it, or by his darts hustle as now. The grand was to ensure he got the results by the time he left _Ye Olde Brittania _tonight.

Going back into the main bar, there was no sign of the weasel-faced man. He continued with his game, his opponents having no idea that he no longer had the money he'd won and was down to merely $40. Wesley, however, was an expert in the art of the 'lucky' and 'fluke' win; as time ticked on he was by midnight $500 up, at which point he gracefully exited the game and, judging his marks expertly, risked offering to return to them the $1500 he'd won, despite not having two-thirds of it. As he'd thought, masses of male pride and a determination not to lose face in front of his friends made each man casually wave off his offer as if the whole thing had been merely an amusing and trivial diversion.

Leaving the ex-pats bar by the rear entrance, again something he did frequently, Wesley waited in complete stillness until the weasel-faced man seemed to materialise in front of him as if he'd been beamed down from the Mothership. Which was entirely possible. Wesley didn't flinch or even blink, merely raised an eyebrow. The other held out the microscopic comparative composition analysis he'd asked for and Wesley held out $200, which made the other raise _his_ eyebrows in appreciative surprise. "Your _speed _and _discretion_ are appreciated, perhaps we can do business again."

Pocketing the money and inclining his head at the compliment _and_ warning in the Englishman's tone, the weasel-faced man slipped away content. Wesley had made it a point to pay slightly above the going rate, but without fuss or threats, for solid information or discreetly rendered services, while yet proving to be capable of shocking and ruthless violence towards those who attempted to play him false – or for a fool. He had built a reputation as a straight shooter, and the fact that he had even sought justice for Merl, the demon murdered by Gunn's old crew, had gone the rounds and done him no harm amongst the demons, other-dimensional beings and shady types he did business with every week.

Folding the report and slipping it into his pocket, Wesley drove home and took the elevator to his apartment, fighting the way his fingers itched to touch it. Entering his apartment, to his relief he found that Spike was not yet back from his usual Friday night partying; Wesley suspected the vampire spent most of his night going to and fro from the human-demon brothel and nearby bar down on 14th and Roe. Going into the kitchen, Wesley cracked open a bottle of his imported Theakston's Old Peculiar, and sipped straight from the bottle as he read the analysis: Otter blood; pig's blood; anti-coagulant agent, etc., etc. _Bingo._ He read on: _Hellibore 2, Sylphic root 3, ground Taric horn, 2.5_. Wesley's lips tightened. Hellibore, Sylphic root and Taric horn when mixed together in the correct proportions were the three active ingredients in an other-dimensional medicine, Luaric, which in turn was of the same chemical 'family' as the mystical drug Orpheus, the stuff Faith had injected in her veins as part of her and Wesley's plan to capture Angelus.

The medicine was superficially similar to Valium and acted as a mild depressive; in small dosages it aided restful sleep and negated mental agitation and mood swings. However, it wasn't for daily use because an active residue remained in the patient's system for several days that increased the depressive symptoms if the patient ingested another dose before the first had been flushed out of his, her or its body. One dose of Luaric wouldn't have done Angel any harm, but Wesley would have bet his last penny that every one of Angel's daily three mugs of blood were laced with enough Luaric to turn the Three Stooges into weeping suicidal wrecks. The otter's blood would more than disguise the distinctive taste of Sylphic root, and Angel's vampiric constitution would fight off the effects to a certain extent – Angel would remain morose and despondent, but wouldn't go on to display the erratic emotional outbursts and hysteric anxiety that would show something was wrong and which would have alerted Wesley in about ten seconds flat as to what was really going on.

Now, how to turn the tables without the bad guy becoming aware of that?

_To be continued in Chapter 4…_

_© _2005 C. D. Stewart


	4. A Direct Management Style

**_Disclaimer_**_: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…_

**_Summary:_**_ Sequel to __**Vampirus (Non) Domesticus**. Wherein there is a lot of heated debate and pithy comment…Rating PG13. _

**THAT OLD (GRAND) SIRE OF MINE**

**Chapter 4 – A Direct Management Approach**

Pressing the intercom, Wesley got through to Harmony's desk. "Harmony, I forgot the Abercrombie file, please could you bring it to me, I can't progress further without it."

"Sure! On my way!" Came back the happy trill.

Bounding up from her desk, Harmony grabbed the file and tripped along the carpeted corridors to Wesley's office in her three-inch heels, beaming indiscriminately at those she passed. After being closeted with Lorne and Gunn and Fred for the past half hour, Angel had been much more relaxed and possibly even slightly happier than he'd been all morning.

Opening the door she stepped inside Wesley's office – "Urk!"

Wesley's hand gripped the back of her neck hard, pulling her scalp where his fingers tangled in her blond tresses as they dug into the sides of her neck. A large stake passed in front of her eyes and she felt a sudden pain between her breasts as Wesley pressed the sharpened stick into her torso directly over her heart. The file fluttered down from her nerveless fingers to scatter on the carpet; Wesley's smoke-grey eyes had gone as cold as pebbles on the bed of an icy mountain stream and an air of lethal intent turned his aura so dark purple it was almost black.

"You need to listen very carefully to my instructions, Harmony, and then you need to follow them _to the letter_. Do you understand?"

"Em-em-em" Harmony whimpered desperately; whatever the crazy man wanted.

"Shush."

She promptly clamped her lips tightly closed.

"Good, since I have your total attention now: Every day, you fetch Angel three mugs of blood, at half-past-ten, noon and three o'clock. As from tomorrow you will find in the bottom right hand drawer of your desk a silver cocktail flask full of blood plus an empty mug identical to the _#1 Boss_ one Angel has. With me so far?"

"Em-em…"

"You will continue to fetch the blood for Angel each day as usual, but when you get back to your desk, you will pour the otter blood and some of the blood from the flask into the mug hidden in the drawer, which you will then take in for Angel after hiding the original mug in the drawer in it's place. At some point you will take the original mug back to the kitchen when the coast is clear and you will simply pour it away and wash the mug out as if that had been your drink. Harmony," incredibly his eyes got colder and even more frightening, "_you must not drink from that mug_. Do you understand these instructions?"

"Y-Yes." Harmony managed a tiny nod against his grip.

"Good…and Harmony…_nobody_ must suspect in the slightest what you are doing. If you tell anyone, or show anyone, or in _any way_ betray what is going on, I will personally hold you down on the floor by that pretty throat of yours and drive this stake right through your heart."

Casually he released her and stepped back, before beginning to collect the scattered file papers as if nothing untoward had happened. Fumbling frantically for the doorknob, Harmony stumbled out of his office and hurried back to her desk trying desperately to stop shaking, acutely aware of Wesley's eyes boring into her back from the shelter of his office. _Act normal, act normal, actnormal, actnormalactnormal,_ she silently chanted the mantra until she could semi-collapse into her chair, dropping her eyes to her desk as if intently studying the open file there, and try instead to get the shaking to stop.

Wesley's lips tightened. What he'd just done was probably excessive, but Harmony was so self-centred and vapid that extreme measures were required to get the point across. Making a big fuss over the doctored blood had to be avoided at all costs, since it would drive the perpetrator underground. That could be avoided if Wesley alone of Team Angel knew what was going on, but the weak link was Harmony – the ditzy vampiress tended to blurt things out without meaning to. Terrorising her into cowering compliance was certainly cruel, but a lot more effective way to ensure the situation stayed secret than his only other option of explaining what was really going on and precipitating a willing but probably disastrous attempt by Harmony to 'help'.

_To be continued in Chapter 5…_

_© _2005 C. D. Stewart


	5. Eating For Two

**_Disclaimer_**_: Don't own, etc., etc. Joss Whedon rules supreme and retains pretty much everything. Only written for personal enjoyment and because this plot bunny just wouldn't die, even after some serious staking…_

**_Summary:_**_ Sequel to __**Vampirus (Non) Domesticus**. Wherein there is a lot of heated debate and pithy comment…Rating PG13. _

**THAT OLD (GRAND) SIRE OF MINE**

**Chapter 5 – Eating For Two**

"Ugh…" Spike, coming into the kitchen to snag a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, screwed up his nose as Wesley expertly manoeuvred the frying pan. "_Liver?_ Take it from me, mate, you're _not_ anaemic."

Transferring the contents of the frying pan to his plate, Wesley informed, "Pan fried lamb's liver with bacon, onions and button mushrooms – nutritious and delicious."

Spike's only response was a derisive snort as he left back to the TV. Wesley sat at the breakfast bar – properly prepared, liver _was_ nice to eat, but that wasn't the point of it. If he was going to feed Angel as well as Spike, he needed to bolster his red blood-cell production, so over the past couple of days he had ingested a strict diet of spinach, broccoli, liver, etc., and iron supplements with a few other vitamins. Wesley kept an eye on the clock that seemed to creep around. Spike had at some point found a new game show on TV – _Who Wants To Win a Million_ or something.

Wesley had to admit the format was engrossing, and he had been silently surprised at just how erudite Spike turned out to be when answering some of the questions often before the host had finished asking it, especially anything to do with literature; it was downright disconcerting when the punk vampire started quoting Shakespeare, wholesale and verbatim. Or then again, maybe not – Spike had been 26 when Drusilla Sired him in 1880 and had one hundred and twenty years plus of vampiric travelling across most of the seven continents to increase his experience, a definite advantage over the contestants. The best part, however, was how Spike got wrapped up in the show to the point where he held furious one-sided arguments with the screen over the idiocy of some contestant; sometimes Wesley just sat back and tried to keep a straight face as Spike ranted and threw his snacks at the TV in disgust.

Tonight, however, he was counting on their favourite game show to keep Spike engrossed and oblivious. Unable to think of a way to get Spike out of the apartment other than inventing a fictitious lady friend, which would probably just make Spike impossible to get rid of so he could meet her, the next best solution was to have him so involved in something else that he didn't notice Wesley. _Who Wants_ whatever it was would fit perfectly.

Getting up, Wesley cleaned up his crockery and then casually went into the bathroom, a wry smile flitting briefly across his face. When he gave Spike somewhere to stay, the idea that he would have to fight for time in his own bathroom never occurred to the Englishman. A vampire being precious about needing to do his ablutions just didn't cross a person's mind. Unlike humans, vampires didn't perspire, secret bodily oils, urinate, defecate or produce seminal emissions that needed to be cleaned off. But they traditionally lived underground and ate people – dirt, grime, blood and gore. It wasn't until after the first time that Spike had spent nearly two hours in the bathroom in the face of Wesley's increasingly irate commentary from the other side of the door that the ex-Watcher seriously thought about it from the undead perspective and saw what should have been blindingly obvious: smell.

Angel had taken a single sniff and known that Wesley had had a one night stand nearly a full day after it happened. While en route to the church where the Aztec demon had killed a woman, Angel had swerved the car in a violent u-turn and dashed off down the alley where they found the freshly killed next victim.

"_He smelled the blood," Spike explained as they looked down at the man's body, "Nothing grabs a vamp's attention like the ruby red."_

But Angel had been a good two hundred feet _away_ from the entrance of the pitch-black alley and travelling at a speed of over 40 miles per hour in the _opposite_ direction at that moment. A vampire's ability to smell must be akin to a shark's ability to detect tiny traces of blood suspended in water even from several miles away. Any creature whose olfactory sense was _that _acute must endure something close to a living hell in any urban area, never mind the sprawling mega-metropolis of 15 million humans that was the Los Angeles basin – the relentless odour of a million taco stands coupled with the vast network of sewers under the city and the myriad other odours that pervaded the air.

It had been pretty easy to consult what vampiric literature there was and sure enough, Wesley found that the more intelligent (and therefore exponentially more dangerous) a vampire was, the more obsessive he or she was about not only personal hygiene but keeping their 'nest' clean. It was almost as if there was a sort of built in population control/survival of the fittest mode – the dumber the vampire the poorer his or her sense of smell and vice versa; while the Slayer slaughtered the common herd en masse, the best and brightest of the _Nosferatu_ avoided ending up as little piles of dust.

Angel never wore the same clothing two days in a row and probably could give seminars on washing detergents and soaps. Spike insisted on cleaning up instantly after meals and showered every night even if all he had done was mooch around Wolfram & Hart all day. On a whim one night, Wesley had gone into the bathroom and covered all the mirrors and reflective surfaces, discovering within seconds _why_ Spike took so long. Having no reflection in a mirror really made not just preening but basic hygiene tasks impossible. Though vampires didn't need to shave, their hair and nails still grew as humans' did for a while after death, and there was also dental hygiene – after spending half a minute in front of the covered mirror trying to floss teeth he couldn't see, Wesley had switched to a toothpick only to turn his gums into a pin cushion.

Right now, however, Wesley wanted Spike away from the bathroom. Closing the door and wishing he'd gotten around to putting a lock on it, Wesley went over to the sink as he heard Spike start to yell at some 'stupid bint' who'd got 'the world's easiest question' wrong. He took the lid off the flask and opened the velvet wrap on the enchanted stiletto. The pointed end had been magically enhanced so that it would pierce flesh effortlessly but cleanly, while the handle end had been crossed with healing charms so that when drawn across the wound, it would close up without trace. It had been difficult to do, since most such charms were only to help the blade do damage, not repair what it had done.

Wesley took off his watch and rolled up his sleeve to expose the veins at his wrist. He had carefully calculated how much he needed to bleed himself. Angel had three mugs of blood a day, but less of the thicker liquid was required than something thinner such as water, plus the volume would be expanded by the otter and small quantities of pig's blood that Harmony would mix into it. Three quarters of a pint, maximum. Wesley picked up the stiletto, his face showing no revulsion or uncertainty. Like many who had suffered mental and emotional child abuse rather than physical and/or sexual assaults, Wesley had started to secretly self-harm at a very early age; he knew, down the hundredth of a millimetre, just how deep to lay a blade into his flesh to cause pain yet not have the wound show within a few hours.

Carefully, he placed the point of the stiletto above the major arterial vein at his left wrist.

_To be continued in the sequel._

_© _2005 C. D. Stewart


End file.
